


Night Terrors

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7419646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lingering trauma of Hugo Strange's 'therapy' gives Oswald nightmares. Ed, newly freed from Arkham, tries to help.</p><p>Read about the morning after in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/8817883">Break of Dawn</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> self-indulgent imaginings for Season Three, tbh

Shadows skitter about the patterned carpet and warm, wooden walls and Ed pauses for a moment to cup the candle holder in both hands to try and still them. Wax splashes from beneath the flame and joins the rest of the milky skin lining the bowl.

A lifetime in Gotham has hardened Ed to many night-time fears – walking home through the city every evening would have been impossible if it hadn’t – and surviving Arkham has done much to strengthen his ability to withstand horrors. But even so, the old manor he now finds himself in, with its labyrinthine passageways filled with dusty portraits and dark, heavy tapestries, is still unfamiliar. With his residence here only a matter of days, much of the place remains unexplored and thus unknown. And Edward Nygma hates the unknown. Nothing makes him more nervous than lacking adequate knowledge about things pertinent to his daily life and, like it or not, this place looks to be extremely pertinent for a good while to come. Hence the nervous tremors down his arms.

Of course, the bloodcurdling scream that had woken him and drawn him from his bed should not be overlooked as a contributing factor.

Steeling himself with a sharp breath, Ed grips the candle holder tighter and presses on.

Considering the multitude of screams and wails and curses he’d suffered through during nights at Arkham, Ed isn’t completely sure the sound wasn’t just a lingering memory manifesting in his dreams and not from inside the manor at all. But after three or four failed attempts to get back to sleep he’d decided not to waste any more time on pointless fretting and go and investigate. If there _was_ some mysterious terror lurking somewhere – and after the discovery of Hugo Strange’s secret lair the idea seems far less impossible than it once might have done – better to learn about it quick, so he can make plans to deal with the situation.

The candle proves to be an intolerable means of illumination, however, forcing Ed to shuffle through the gloom at an infuriatingly snail-like pace, and he curses the lack of modernisation. Historic the place might be, and Ed has to admit the grandeur is impressive, but surely a few more electric lights wouldn’t be amiss?

When the glow from his candle reveals the familiar form of the ornately carved banister at the top of the staircase, Ed reaches out a hand with no little relief to one of the few spots he knows to hold a light switch and with a satisfying ‘thunk’ the two bulbs positioned along the wall to his left burst into life. The light is weak, not quite making it all the way to where the stairs finish on the second floor, but it’s better than nothing and Ed knows there’s another switch at the top of the second staircase leading to the foyer.

So he begins his descent with confidence. 

Confidence that drains from him two or three steps down when a loud, anguished cry tears into the previous quiet, echoing up and down the corridors below and seeming to swell around him on the stairs, making an assessment of where the sound might have originated utterly impossible.

Ed’s candle shakes again, making the shadows at the bottom of the staircase swim, creating unpleasant shapes, monstrous-like forms. Worse – the already miniscule flame begins dancing madly against the onslaught of Ed’s increasingly erratic breathing, threatening to snuff out altogether if Ed isn’t careful. A most undesirable outcome, since he used the last match in the box to light the damn thing and is loathe to brave the gauntlet of stairs to the next point of illumination in the dark.

With forced slowness, Ed holds the candle lower and away from his frantic breath. The flame rights itself and maintains a steadier gleam, exposing nothing but dull carpet at the bottom of the stairs and a hint of wooden panelling beyond and Ed sighs. No monsters here. No menacing orderlies.

This isn’t Arkham, he tells himself. _This isn’t Arkham_.

The air around him stills again, punctuated only by the soft creaks and groans expected of an old building, and the thrum of Ed’s heart starts to ebb.

Breathing deep, Ed shifts his grip round the candle so he can tie the cord of the chequered green nightgown he’d inherited with his new room tighter about his middle, and with slow, cautious steps makes his way down the rest of the stairs, bare feet feeling to the edge of each before he makes his move. The bottom one creaks a bit and the shock of the sound has him jolt across the corridor and slam his palm against the second light switch in panic. As the two other bulbs flare into life, exposing nothing but wood and emptiness, Ed feels his cheeks burn at the indignity of the run and he’s grateful no one was there to witness him scurrying about like a schoolboy.

He turns to decide where to go next and lets out a high pitched yelp at the sight of a ghostly figure standing still and silent at the top of the final flight of stairs.

As the figure approaches he flinches back, spilling hot wax onto his wrist, which makes him yelp again.

He’s just wondering whether to throw the candle or if the potential harm this might cause is worth the loss of the flame when the phantasm gives a distinctly un-ghost-like chuckle.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.”

A couple of steps more and the light reveals the tumbling blonde hair and smug grin of Barbara Kean, her spectre-like appearance explained by the lacy white negligee she’s currently sporting.

“Miss Kean!” Ed hisses, scowling at her as he works to scratch off the already hardening wax. “What are you doing skulking around in the dark?”

Barbara lifts a hand in response and Ed notices the glass she’s holding for the first time, a quarter full with amber liquid.

“Nightcap,” she shrugs. “I know my way around here pretty well by now, I usually don’t bother with the lights.”

Ed glares at her over his glasses, which have slipped a way down his nose as a consequence of his recent exertion. Of all the changes and upheavals in his life these past few days, Miss Kean’s involvement is perhaps the biggest puzzle. Her former intimacy with Jim Gordon would have led him to assume her untrustworthy, indeed even antagonistic, in regards to himself, considering he was responsible for her once intended’s incarceration, if it wasn’t for the fact that she had been instrumental in his escape from the Asylum. Their interaction thus far has ranged little from perfunctory to pleasantry, leaving him no closer to ascertaining her motives.

Her phrasing now strikes Ed as suspicious – is her claim of greater knowledge of the Van Dahl estate a veiled warning? An implication that, by extension, she has the greater claim to Oswald’s affections?

A foolish gambit – Oswald would hardly have orchestrated Ed’s break out for anything less than genuine friendship.

Wouldn’t he?

Now Ed thinks about it, his benefactor _has_ been somewhat reclusive since he first welcomed Ed into his grand new home. And there is the small matter of his and Oswald’s last meeting prior to Ed’s incarceration, in which he’d turned the woefully tarred and feathered Penguin away. Seeing as Oswald is now, to all intents and purposes, free of Strange’s brutal conditioning, it’s possible he has come to view that dismissal rather less favourably than he had at the time and his reasons for bringing Ed here were more nefarious than kind.

Perhaps the screams were the work of Barbara herself – she had developed a reputation of sorts for stabbing since the murder of her parents. She could have been practicing her technique, honing her skills under Oswald’s watchful eye with the intent to perform them on Ed in the near future – a double revenge for both his framing of Jim and slight of Oswald.

Perhaps –

“Want one?” Barbara waves her glass under Ed’s nose, distracting him from his thoughts.

Which may be for the best – still tired and disorientated from the switch from inmate to fugitive, Ed is concerned that his reasoning may be at risk of veering towards the fantastical. Fortunately, in this case he seems to have caught himself before such an occurrence.

“No, thank you,” he answers, pushing his glasses back into position and watching Barbara closely as he continues with – “I thought I heard something...”

This will catch her – no matter her reaction he should be able to read some nugget of truth in the response. Oh yes, whatever Miss Kean and his dear Penguin have planned for him, Ed will be ready.

Except the signs of duplicity Ed was expecting don’t come. Instead, Barbara just shrugs and her answer is straight forward and breezy.

“Oh, that’ll be Ozzie.”

This disarms Ed, leaving him speechless.

Oswald is making someone scream? So... there is to be no dissembling then? Miss Kean is admitting that she and Oswald are engaging in secret torture? But why tell him? Could it be that these night-time activities are unconnected to Ed after all?

Or – is this another hidden threat? Miss Kean teasing him with evidence of his own future pain?

“He has nightmares sometimes,” Barbara concludes, lips folding together in a gesture confusing in the way it holds all the hallmarks of sympathy.

“Nightmares?” Ed starts. “What –?”

Further enquiry is interrupted by a pained groan emanating from behind him.

“There he goes again,” Barbara explains as Ed turns his head. “Poor guy. Strange must have really messed with him at Arkham.”

The groans quiet to choking whimpers, their origin now more easily determined as one of the rooms a few doors down. One of the few rooms Ed made sure to mentally map the position of on arrival. Oswald’s bedroom.

It’s not until that moment that the reality of the situation falls into place – the screaming is neither threatening nor harmless recreation, but Oswald himself.

“I guess we got lucky, huh?”

The unexpected truth has Ed so distracted he doesn’t protest the intimate position Barbara takes up at his side. Indeed, the new softness to her voice and the way her words unite the two of them creates a possibility hitherto unimagined – that she may be not obstacle or rival, but _ally_. A hypothesis supported by the troubled frown Ed notes on her as she stares down the corridor, teeth worrying her bottom lip as Oswald’s sad moaning continues.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I suppose we were.”

She glances his way – a brief, wide-eyed look that speaks of a mutual restlessness and lingering anxiety, born of sleepless nights in unsanitary cells and the need to cope with Arkham’s all too readily hands-on security. A look quickly covered with a slightly-too-wide smile and sip of her drink.

“Don’t worry,” she adds. “They usually don’t last more than an hour or two.”

“An _hour or two?_ ” Ed repeats, aghast. “Shouldn’t we do something?”

Barbara gives a fast shake of her head.

“I tried once, but –” She leans in, lowering her voice. “He’s real touchy about it. Best just to leave him alone. Maybe make some strong coffee in the morning.”  

This doesn’t strike Ed as very medically sound, but before he can voice any objections Barbara is patting him on the shoulder and moving away.

“Anyway,” she continues. “I’m turning in. See you when the sun’s up.”

She lifts her glass in lieu of goodbye before turning to pad up the stairs to wherever her own room is situated. It seems to Ed that the pace and light tremor in her steps belie her otherwise cool exterior and he wonders if she finds Oswald’s suffering, or perhaps her helplessness in the face of it, more upsetting than she’s letting on.

As a sudden, high-pitched whine rends the air, Ed can’t help but feel a rush of affinity for her. His stomach knots to hear the once proud and vicious Oswald Cobblepot so afflicted and a bitter taste rises to the back of his throat at the thought of it as a regular occurrence.

He looks once more down the corridor.

Maybe Barbara couldn’t help. But, of course, she doesn’t have Ed’s medical knowledge and general expertise. Not to mention past experience helping The Penguin through sleepless nights. These nightmares are a far cry from the quieter, sorrowful dreams about his mother Oswald had suffered during his stay at Ed’s apartment no doubt, but Ed is sure he is capable of easing these ones just as well.

And since it appears his suspicions about Oswald casting their friendship aside have proven once again unfounded, well - what are friends for, after all?

 

*** 

 

On entering Oswald’s chamber Ed is first struck by the absence of the gloom pervading the rest of the manor. There’s a lamp on to the left of Oswald’s bed, the side furthest from the door, and the illumination through its velvet gold shade casts a warm sheen of light about the room.

That Oswald has left a light on as he sleeps is telling – a comfort perhaps, in preparation of bad dreams? Or – no – as Ed moves closer he sees an open book face down on the carpet beside the bed – likely fallen from tired fingers as the slumber Oswald must have been attempting to avoid overtook him. Ed can’t quite make out the title, the letters have faded with age, but the image across the tattered dust cover depicts a flock of birds mid-flight. It’s a large book, thick and, one assumes, extremely heavy – Ed deduces an encyclopaedia of some kind. He’ll check later. For now there are more immediate concerns.

Since the lamp makes his candle superfluous, Ed blows out the flame and discards it on the table closest to him on Oswald’s other side. Leaving the doused wick to thread smoky trails in his wake, Ed approaches Oswald’s twitching form.

“Mr Penguin?” he tries, keeping his voice quiet so as not to add to his friend’s existing fears. Oswald continues to thrash back and forth across the sheets, twisting and turning under the covers in a way Ed is certain can’t be good for his weak leg. “Mr Penguin,” Ed tries again, reaching out to grip Oswald’s shoulder. Oswald makes a couple of whimpering noises, but otherwise nothing.

Ed pauses to readjust his glasses. Looks like he’ll need to be firmer.

Reaching out with both hands this time, Ed leans over and grips both of Oswald’s shoulders tight. This close he can see beads of sweat glistening across Oswald’s forehead and down his neck, staining the blue collar of his silk pyjamas and pasting his dark hair against the skin in messy clumps.

“Mr Penguin, wake up,” Ed says, sharper and with an additional shake. This doesn’t work either. “ _Oswald!_ ” he snaps, shaking fiercely.

With a long gasping, keening sound, Oswald finally opens his eyes.

“What?” he pants, unfocused gaze slipping from Ed to the ceiling.

A sigh escapes Ed as he withdraws his hold and he’s surprised to find his heart beating faster. Logically he’d known Oswald was sure to wake sooner or later, he’d been actively dreaming and wasn’t catatonic, but it seems some more illogical part of him had started to... worry.

He’s just trying to think of something soothing to say when Oswald pushes himself up the bed, letting his covers fall to his lap.

“Who –?” he starts, and then, quick as lightening, he snatches something from beneath the glowing lamp and lunges.

A sharp point digs into the soft flesh beneath Ed’s chin, just shy of drawing blood. He should have checked the other table more thoroughly - it’s simple logic to assume a criminal would keep a weapon to hand at all times, plus Miss Kean had warned Oswald might be touchy.

“Hey, whoa, hey!” Ed exclaims, chiding his carelessness. His anxiety had made him sloppy.

He could try to escape by jerking back, but it’s risky. Oswald is tenacious when he has a mind to kill or maim and there’s every chance he would be spurred on by the move to follow Ed and stab without a second thought. No, the best option is to wait for Oswald to calm down. So instead Ed lifts up his arms, palms forward – a sign of submission – and holds still.

The tactic pays off, as after a couple of shaky breaths Oswald’s wide eyes start to narrow in recognition.

“Ed?”

“Yes, yes,” Ed hastens to confirm. “It’s me.”

After what feels like an age of laboured breathing, Oswald lowers the blade, and Ed prickles all over with adrenaline. He’s getting quite adept at facing Oswald down when he’s threatening to kill him, and the rush this time is much stronger – grown in direct proportion to the risk, Ed suspects, since last time the factoring in of Oswald’s injuries had significantly reduced the likelihood of his demise.

“What are you doing here?” Oswald demands more than asks, eyes latching on to Ed like a bird of prey sizing up a meal.

“I heard screaming,” Ed answers, lowering his arms slowly, conscious of Oswald’s continuing grip around the knife and that his identity is no guarantee of safety.

The answer acts as an unexpected ice-breaker, however, seeing Oswald sag against the bed’s oaken headboard, his hold on the blade growing slack as he scrunches his eyes up in – Ed can’t be sure – Shame? Frustration? Resignation?

“It’s nothing,” Oswald mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Go back to bed,” he adds, blinking less hawk-like and more haggard eyes open again so he can lean over and rest the knife on the table at Ed’s side, not far from the now cold and still candle. The metal clatters against the table’s glass top as a tremor shakes up Oswald’s arm and he sits back again quickly, folding his arms tight across his body. Though this does little to quell the shudders that soon spread about the rest of him.

“Are you sure?” Ed insists, confident enough that the threat has passed to lean in close again. “Because you’re all clammy, and shaking.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Oswald growls. Or tries to. Ed suspects the quiver in his friend’s voice is not intended. The way his thumbs rub about his arms in compulsive circles, fingers occasionally kneading folds into the fabric at his elbows, further negates the claim. “Go away.”

This would be where Miss Kean’s ministrations met their end Ed presumes. But he knows better than to obey such obviously flawed instructions.

“With all due respect, Mr Penguin,” he begins, folding a leg over the covers next to Oswald and sitting down, other foot resting on the floor. “You’re not fine. You’re displaying a number of symptoms common to victims of trauma, possibly Post Traumatic Stress, and depending on the severity of your dreams you may also be suffering from Shock. I think I should stay.”

Even shivering with his hair in matted clumps, Oswald’s glare is delightfully murderous. Oh my, but it is good to see _his_ Penguin again.

“Think what you like,” Oswald spits. “But I’m telling you to leave.”

Since his own assessment of the situation is quite clearly the superior one, Ed thinks nothing of disregarding this request.

“No.”

When not posing an immediate threat Oswald’s anger is rather adorable really, Ed thinks, as he watches Oswald’s nostrils flare and his lips harden to a pale line.

“ _No?_ ”

The fury does manage to still Oswald’s tremors, the tension of it holding him ramrod straight. But Ed knows that Oswald’s level of exhaustion cannot hope to maintain such a state for long.

“No,” he repeats, meeting Oswald’s steely gaze with an equally fixed but calm one of his own. “No I won’t leave,” he continues, placing a hand on Oswald’s upper arm in a gesture both comforting and proprietary – and in the heat of the moment even Ed is unclear which of the two motivations has greater claim to his actions. “And Mr Penguin,” he finishes, not taking his eyes from Oswald for an instant. “You don’t want me to.”

Oswald gasps, indignant, and jerks back.

“How – how dare you tell me what I – I –” Oswald’s breath catches as his rage starts to fade. “I don’t –”

He clings to his defiance much longer than Ed is expecting, grimacing as his voice breaks and trying to swallow the weakness back, hissing shallow breath through gritted teeth.

“I’m not –” he tries, only to cut himself off by slamming his eyes shut, one hand balling into a fist that he presses to his lips, biting down hard on the knuckle. The proverbial finger in the dam.

Ed wraps a hand about Oswald’s wrist, intending to tug his arm away, but Oswald yanks free and slaps at him, hitting with a strike just that bit too weak to be vicious.

“Don’t touch me!” he chokes, blinking at Ed in reproach. “You –”

They hold for a second, breathless and silent, then Oswald croaks out a strangled “damn you” and his self-control shatters with a broken sob. His head drops under the onslaught, lashes quickly gumming up with tears that escape him in thick, uncontrollable bursts. He lifts a hand as though to wipe them away but stops as another sob jolts through him, seeming to acknowledge the futility, and instead his shaking fingers find the collar of Ed’s nightgown and twist into the fabric.

It’s not clear if Oswald draws him in or of Ed is the one who chooses to move first, but either way Ed gathers Oswald into his arms, one hand gently cupping the back of his friend’s head as Oswald buries into the crook of his neck. Hot breath and tears fall in equal measure onto Ed’s skin and though the sensation is discomforting Ed endures it. More than that, as Oswald’s sobbing grows more desperate, his shoulders heaving from the effort, Ed’s arms tighten about him, bringing him closer, and Ed finds himself whispering soft words into the shell of Oswald’s ear.

He tells his friend it’s alright, that he’s safe now, that everything will be fine and other such nonsense that Ed might cringe to think of as passing his lips if he wasn’t so very lost in the sentiment of it all.

And there’s a mystery indeed.

When did it happen that his dealings with Oswald became so imprecise? When did his touches stop being meticulously planned points of contact and start becoming instinctive caresses? When did the unlocking of Oswald’s mind stop being about the benefits to himself alone? When did manipulation start veering into care?

Oswald had supposed to be a means to an end – a tool, like those schmucks at the Asylum had been, from which Ed could learn how best to satisfy his darker urges. Now here he is lightly stroking Oswald’s hair and shushing him as he cries without any thought to recompense beyond Oswald’s personal wellbeing.

He’ll assign a purpose later, Ed tells himself as he lets Oswald shuck off the bedcovers around his legs so he can better curl into him, one hand still grasping the lapel of Ed’s nightgown, the other clutching his waist.

Once the flood has passed, the two of them hold each other quietly, Ed rubbing calm, lazy circles up and down Oswald’s back, while Oswald starts by degrees to take control of his ragged breathing.

Having succeeded so well at massaging the tension out of his friend, Ed is perturbed to feel it returning as Oswald’s shoulders bunch up in his arms, accompanied by a couple of savage hisses into Ed’s collar bone.

“I’m gonna kill him, Ed!” Oswald snarls and Ed surmises, to his relief, that this tension is no longer rooted in fear but is an expression of purer, cleaner, unadulterated rage. And even better – it is not directed at him. “I’m gonna rip him apart with my own hands. I’m gonna _tear his heart out_ and make him eat it!”

“Who?” Ed asks. Not from necessity – the answer is more than obvious – but because encouraging Oswald’s anger seems like a sensible way to continue the distraction from his pain. A therapist might dispute this, but the laughable attempts at psychoanalysis made at Arkham had proven beyond doubt Ed’s suspicion – begun in no small part from witnessing the ineffectiveness of GCPD’s own fragrant but obtuse Doctor Leslie Thompkins – that the profession was full of imbecilic hacks, so better to trust his own assessments.  

The bait hooks its target perfectly, seeing Oswald pull free of him, hands fisting at his sides, eyes wild, lips curled in a beautiful sneer.

“ _Strange!_ ” he yells, voice scratchy from crying so long but otherwise strong. “What he’s done to me _will not stand!_ He has to pay!”

“Yes,” Ed agrees at once. “Absolutely. He will.” He nods, resting his own hands neatly in his lap, head bowing just a little to give an impression of subservience. “And Mr Penguin, you know I would be more than happy to assist you in bleeding him dry.” Ed grins, adding – “It is, after all, the least I can do, considering I owe you my freedom.” There. He knew he’d find a purpose for all this in the end.

But Oswald waves a hand – a short, sharp movement of dismissal.

“That was a debt repaid,” he says. “I owed you my life. _Although_ –” Oswald’s eyes narrow at Ed. “I did think of leaving you there, when I considered your treatment of me after I was released.”

Being the focus of Oswald’s wrath may be a dangerous place to find oneself, but knowing that Oswald is now _compos mentis_ Ed can’t help but feel a thrill at the attention. When unencumbered by grief or trauma, Oswald is someone as near as Ed’s found to being his equal, and the prospect of pitting himself against such a one, of having to navigate his way out of danger with words and wit as opposed to baser physical exertion, is close to intoxicating.

“Mr Penguin,” Ed interjects, beginning his game by playing the penitent card. “If I had known then what had been done to you, I would never –”

“Sshht!” Oswald cuts him off, closing his eyes against Ed’s protestations and holding up a finger between them. When his eyes open again they are firm and unmoved and Ed is shocked to feel a rush of excitement warm him at this too, tingling beneath his skin to his very fingers and toes. Perhaps failing to earn Oswald’s forgiveness will bring a different kind of victory – a punishment still, yes, but not the torture Ed had been fearing.

“You left me alone, in the cold and the rain, Ed,” Oswald continues, lifting an eyebrow. “I’ve killed men for less.”

Ed parts his lips to further argue his case, but Oswald’s penetrating stare leaves his mouth dry, heart beating a heady mix of anxiety and something else through his veins. Something aching. Something hungry.

“Are you going to kill me?” Ed asks, breathless.

Oswald doesn’t intend to kill him. Not now. Not after their recent intimacy. Ed is sure enough about that. But what Oswald _does_ intend, and how far within, or beyond, Ed’s capacity for endurance his intentions lie – that is the question. With just enough uncertainty to give things an edge. Just enough leeway for Ed to manipulate.

A quick flick of his eyes to the side table and back again sees Oswald do the same, drawing his gaze to the knife still resting there. This should have the effect of presenting Ed as fearful and submissive, while simultaneously reminding Oswald of the weapon and the myriad of uses it has beyond killing.

“No, my friend,” Oswald says, eyes sliding from the table back to Ed and looking him up and down. Languid. Contemplative. “I’m not going to kill you.”

An unspoken ‘but’ looms into the following silence, the air between them thick with anticipation. Ed’s chest grows tight as he waits, imagining Oswald once again with blade in hand, once again holding it to his skin. He’s made Oswald back down twice now from using such a weapon against him, but each time had extenuating circumstances, each time Oswald was but a broken bird easily tamed. Will Ed be capable of exerting the same control when Oswald is level-headed? Or, more to the point, considering the downward spiral his blood seems to be flowing in, will he _want_ to?

His eagerness at the prospect of such a tantalisingly psychological, yet dangerously physical, back and forth is such that Ed doesn’t realise he is leaning closer until he feels moist breath on his lips. Oswald’s wide, toothy smile is unfocused, split by the lower edge of Ed’s glasses.

“No,” Oswald breathes. “Because, it occurs to me, that if you hadn’t cast me aside, I may never have met my dear estranged father, and so not be in the position of good fortune you find me in now.”

Blinking, Ed draws back. This is... not how he was expecting the conversation to proceed.

“So on reflection,” Oswald is continuing, both hands and shoulders lifting in a theatrical shrug. “I say, let bygones be bygones.” He stares up and into Ed, an easy smirk twisting about one corner of his mouth. The last words he speaks slowly – smugly – eyes gleaming with that self-assured awareness of being the cause of another’s defeat. “We’re good.”

Rats.

So here is Oswald’s revenge – not infliction but denial.

Ed’s disappointment escapes him in a puff of too long bated breath. Fool – he’d been too obvious. Of course Oswald had read his desires – the man had built an empire on precisely such a skill. He’ll need to practice greater subtlety if he wants to sway The Penguin at the height of his game.

“Oh. Well. Yes – I – thank you,” Ed stammers, lost in the face of Oswald’s triumph. He hasn’t felt this out of depth since his early attempts at courting Miss Kringle. “But, um. Regardless. I have my own reasons for wanting Professor Strange to know pain,” he adds, attempting to salvage _something_ from the exchange. “So, my offer of assistance remains. You need only ask.”

Oswald grants him a nod.

“Thank you.”

The gratitude and softening of Oswald’s smile surprises Ed by appearing genuine. As does Oswald’s following look away and slow bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, eyes growing vacant. But it’s not until Oswald’s right hand creeps over to his left forearm and starts pinching the fabric – and by the look of it also the skin below – that Ed realises his friend’s anxiety has begun to return.

“Do you think they’ll stop then, once he’s dead?” Oswald whispers, staring unseeing at a fixed point in the distance. “The dreams.”

The turn from furious control to open vulnerability is fast enough to make Ed’s head spin. There’s a victory in it too – evidence he has Oswald’s trust. But the price of his friend’s lingering distress makes the accomplishment ring hollow.

Hugo Strange has much to answer for.

“I don’t know,” Ed answers, matching Oswald’s honesty with his own, the taste of failure coating his tongue with every word. It’s never an answer Ed enjoys, but the shimmer of pain in Oswald’s eyes makes it viler than usual. No, no, he can’t leave his friend with such an unsatisfactory response. “But what I do know, Mr Penguin – Oswald,” he hurries on, reaching over to lay both hands over Oswald’s own, stilling the fingers Oswald persists in digging into his arm. “Is that you are the strongest person I have ever met.” He leans closer, holding Oswald’s gaze. Others might call the look ferocious, but Oswald doesn’t seem to mind, meeting it instead with a similarly intense, almost desperate, one of his own. “Just look at the hardships you’ve already endured,” Ed insists. “No matter what happens, you _will_ survive this too.”

Creasing along Oswald’s brow gives his stare an ardent, yearning quality.

“You really believe that?”

It’s not a question so much as conviction – wholehearted certainty that he, Edward Nygma, has the answer.

Proper appreciation, at last, of Ed’s intellect and abilities.

“Believe it? No,” Ed smiles. “Belief is weak. Open to doubt. I don’t believe, my friend, I _know_. And I know because –” He hesitates, suddenly aware of the commitment he’s on the verge of talking himself into. But Oswald continues to watch him, captive, and Ed can’t help but carry on. “– because I plan to make sure of it.”  

When Oswald’s fingers curl around his own Ed returns the gesture, holding tight. Yes my friend, the touch says, I have you, I’ll take care of you, I won’t let you go.

Or, in simpler terms – you’re _mine_.

Except – with such an interlocking, Oswald’s hold on him just as strong as Ed’s, who can say who is captive to whom at this point?

The mystery riddles its way into Ed’s stomach, somersaulting about, making his heartbeat falter. Who is in control?

Ed swallows when no answer is forthcoming. And it’s not because he doesn’t know, he realises with a shock, but because he _doesn’t want to know_.

Ignorance is bliss is a concept Ed has never had patience for, but here and now, leaning in again, shallow breath meeting Oswald’s short exhalations as his friend sways forward to meet him, Ed thinks he knows a glimmer of understanding.

His mistake had been in thinking this was a game of cat and mouse. It’s not, it’s a tug of war – both players on equal footing, losing and gaining ground in turn. And between them a steadfast, unyielding connection. Binding only in their joint refusal to relinquish it.

And whatever that connection is, whatever secret truth lies between them – it is sure to be exposed if this moment is allowed to continue, and the prospect of knowledge has never been so terrifying. 

“Anyway!” Ed says, infusing his words with false cheerfulness and ignoring the way Oswald starts at the sudden volume. “You really must try and get some more sleep.” He extracts his hands from Oswald’s grasp and slips off the bed, busying himself with fluffing Oswald’s pillows. “You won’t be killing anyone if you’re passed out from exhaustion! Heheheh!”

There’s a pause that Ed fills by smoothing and re-smoothing the pillowcase edges.

“Yes,” Oswald says, finally, and if he is offended or suspicious of Ed’s altered behaviour it doesn’t show in his voice. “You’re probably right.”

Oswald shifts in the corner of his vision and when Ed pulls back it’s to see him rearranging himself under the bedcovers. Ed has to snatch his hand away from smoothing these down as well.

“Good. Well,” Ed mutters as Oswald settles. “I should get back to my room.”

The smile he offers feels awkward, too wide and stiff, so Ed turns quickly before it can be questioned. He hasn’t even taken a step before Oswald calls after him.

“Wait.”

Ed stops but doesn’t turn. Fearful that doing so may return them to that knife edge of awareness.

“I... you... you could stay a while.” Oswald sniffs and adds – “I suppose. If you still want to.”

The attempt at nonchalance is spirited but transparent and this time Ed’s smile is easier. Unbidden. Because it’s rare for Ed’s company to be desired. Necessary, absolutely, and Ed has grown more than adept at insinuating into places others are so often reluctant to admit his suitability for. Such has been his stratagem with Oswald for the most part. So oh, to find his typical approach is no longer required – it’s a knocking on his door every fibre of him longs to open up to.

But he must be weary. The last time he’d known such a thing was with Kristen and well, everyone knows how that turned out.

So he tames his smile before turning around.

“Of course,” he says.

A flash of something passes over Oswald’s face, but it’s gone as soon as Ed steps back to him, buried in a one shouldered shrug. Indifference. Or the feigning of it.

Ed’s foot knocks something as he moves and he looks down to the book he’d noticed earlier. Ah, serendipity – the perfect means of distraction to keep them from reaching any more dangerous heights of familiarity.

“I could read to you, if you like,” he suggests as he bends down to retrieve the volume. Close up the faded gold lettering just about spells the title – ‘A Field Guide to the Birds of North America.’ Curious.

“That’s kind of you, but no,” Oswald tells him, resting his head against the pillows. “I found that downstairs. My father...” His voice cracks a little. “My father was a wonderful man. But housekeeping was not his forte. I don’t think the library here has been updated in centuries, because the information in that –” He waves vaguely in the direction of the book. “- is incomplete and woefully inaccurate.”

“Oh?” Ed mutters, thumbing through some of the pages as he perches back on the bed. “How do you know?”

“Birds were a... pastime, as a child,” Oswald shrugs, then chuckles. “Ironic, really…”

He breaks off with a yawn while Ed flicks to the front page. The date of publication is listed as 1914 – hardly a century ago, but old enough to be outdated it’s true.

“Did you know that while most people consider members of the _Corvidae_ family to be irritant pests, they’re actually highly intelligent and capable of solving complex puzzles made up of at least eight steps in order to get what they want?”

Though Oswald’s voice grows low with sleep towards the end he recites the fact without hesitation, stressing the ‘irritant pests’ and ‘complex puzzles.’ The implication isn’t lost on Ed, though it’s hard to say if Oswald means to flatter or insult, and the tiny flicker of a smile Ed glances over to catch beneath his friend’s now closed eyelids fails to elucidate the matter. 

“Isn’t that _neat_?” Oswald concludes.

Recognising his own words from their first meeting parroted back to him, Ed lowers the book to his lap and twists round to assess Oswald properly. With his eyes closed and almost asleep he looks boyish, more so with his smile curling up at both sides, adding just the right amount of mischievousness to negate the mask of innocence sleep is so quick to provide.

During his stay at Ed’s apartment Oswald had given the impression he’d forgotten their introduction at the GCPD – either he’d been lying as some kind of power play, or the memory had returned at a subsequent point, triggered by the time they’d spent together perhaps. Whatever the truth, this teasing reference to their history now is... endearing. Ed’s never been teased before. Or, well, not like this, without malice. Mocking tempered with respect. And maybe just a touch of reprimand. Ed _had_ been particularly smug that day, riding the thrill of being so close to a known murderer, giddy over his wordplay and how it had seemed to confound The Penguin. But of course, if ornithology was a hobby of Oswald’s, as his keen knowledge of crows does seem to indicate, he might already know about the habits of penguins – might even know more than Ed himself – making Ed’s jibe to Oswald about them back then not nearly as scathing as he’d thought.

To pick crows as well is genius. That the birds share Ed’s knack for problem solving is only part of their relevance, because of course – two together is a murder.

Everything about Oswald’s statement is frankly a linguistic delight, infused with private meaning.

It’s downright flirtatious is what is it.

And despite his best efforts, Ed is too weak to resist the temptation.

Without even thinking about it he slides the book onto the glass tabletop and climbs into the bed, resting his back against the headboard and shuffling under the covers until he is at Oswald’s side, legs crossed at his ankles, Oswald’s head at his waist. His touch is feather light at first, fingertips ghosting over the spikes of hair across Oswald’s forehead, easing apart the tangles. Then, just for an instant, a grin, or a grimace, or both, splits Oswald’s face. It fades quickly, but the sentiment lingers in the way Oswald turns his head to all but nuzzle against Ed’s thigh and Ed takes the opportunity to run his fingers deep into Oswald’s hair. Both of them sigh.

Then Ed is humming a familiar tune, halfway through before he even realises, tracing dry tear tracks down Oswald’s cheek with his thumb and wiping them, motherly, away.

It doesn’t take long for Oswald’s breathing to grow deep and even and he’s fast asleep before the song is over.

Oh dear, Ed thinks as he continues, the music and physical contact no longer serving any conceivable purpose beyond his own enjoyment, unspoken lyrics floating through his mind. _The road ahead is dark, so dark I cannot see._ Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Once he’s finished he lets his hand drift, mapping the contours of Oswald’s neck, the dip of his collar bone through buttoned up blue silk, the rise and fall of his shoulder. Then, very carefully and quietly, Ed eases himself down so he’s lying on his side, facing Oswald across the pillows.

“At night I come without being fetched, by day I am lost without being stolen,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to his sleeping friend’s forehead. “May yours be sweet, my dear Penguin,” he breathes into Oswald’s skin, before leaning over to place his glasses on the bedside table and turn off the lamp, plunging them both, together, into darkness.

 

~ **fin** ~

 


End file.
